Damn it all to hell. Guess what I found upon opening the paper this morning? An obituary for Sinclair Fogg.
It's nonsense of course. I'll admit, my heart stopped briefly when I saw those words, but it isn't anything I haven't read before: a generational talent, gone too soon. Just as he did the first time he "died", John has managed to get himself quite the tribute. It's good. It's what he deserves. And I'm glad he's being cautious, I suppose, but I curse my own luck. This will make it that much harder to find him.
At least I have a photo of him now. A truly excellent one too —he's standing on a sound stage, laughing at something someone has said just out of frame. I would have thought the paper would have run one of his portraits, but he must have requested this particular picture somehow. The obituary states that a Mrs. Virginia Bowman will be taking over Sinclair Studios, so perhaps he left specific instructions in some sort of will. Leave it to John to give audiences one last shock by giving his studio over to a woman. It delights me, even if have no idea who this woman is. There's something vaguely familiar about the name, but I can't quite place it.
There's something familiar about the photograph too. I think I was there, that day. I remember that suit of his and there's a bit of the film set in the corner of the photo. I'd visited so many of his sets, and I'm sure I visited that one. Am I the one just out of frame? Am I the one making him laugh like that? I hope so.
It’s frustrating, not knowing what gaps are due to my injury or the usual ravages of time. I remember the sound of John’s laugh with perfect clarity, but I know that, even before the war, I wouldn’t be able to recall every single time I drew it out of him. I don’t remember what I had for breakfast three Tuesdays ago, and I don’t believe that’s any cause for concern. But even with what feels like my full memory restored, I’ll never know what I’m missing.
At least I can tell the difference between dreams and memories now. Seeing the sound stage in the photo had me reflecting on a dream I had a few months after getting out of the hospital. I was on one such stage in the dream, visiting John after everyone had gone home for the day. He was so proud, giving me a tour, delighting in all the various visual effects that give him the same sense of wonder illusion once did. I’m fairly certain that was real— the memory I have of him showing me the false snow they would use for their films. But the dream ended quite…affectionately and I realize now that those memories are not memories at all, but the after images of long held fantasies. I do remember the precise shape and location of all his scars, but when I realized I couldn’t recall the feel of them under my hands, I knew for certain that we’d never walked down that path together.
There I go again, wasting ink in daydreams when I have serious concerns to attend to. It’s an awful turn of fortune that I should finally have arrived back in America just the moment John is abroad. Though maybe that’s a misdirection—claiming he died abroad so that no one will notice he’s still walking around Los Angeles. Then again, I don’t think he’s fool enough to stay in his house. I’m sure he’s already set up somewhere else. I know I can count on Mr. Weston to have the information. Finding Mr. Weston will take some doing—I cannot for the life of me remember if he resided in New York or Washington D.C.—but at least I have my feet on US soil again.
I’m terrified. I’ve only been back three days, and I don’t think it was until seeing his photo that it all became real. I’m going to see him again. I’m going to hold him again. Even if it’s just in the kind of friendly embrace we parted with, it will be more happiness than I thought was possible to claim when I woke up in Italy.
I have no idea how he’ll react. I have some time still, to determine what exactly I want to say to him, but I know that—no matter how I prepare—I’ll be terribly nervous when the time comes. Especially since I’m certain he’s not received any of my letters. He must have already moved, in fact, and perhaps isn’t taking mail at the studio lot anymore. I’m so certain that if he’d gotten just a single one of my notes, he would have come to Europe right away to meet me.
One of the last things I remember before waking up is writing him a letter that revealed the true nature of my feelings. I wonder if he received that one. I wonder what he thought of it. I wonder if he read it and was so repelled, that he’s decided he wants nothing to do with me. I shouldn’t think that he would be so callous and cavalier, not after the decades of friendship that we’ve accumulated, but the fear still lingers.
I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
[from the personal diary of C.X. Chambers]
[listen to New Year’s Day wherever you get your podcasts. To read the pre-1917 entries, join Atypical Artists and get access to the archive of 24 entries (5,000+ words), as well as ad-free episodes of Atypical's whole catalogue. to receive future monthly missives straight to your inbox, sign up for free here]
blakekathryn
stormborns
pixelskylines
origamiaround
